


Love of a Kind

by BondedWings



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Relationship(s), but they're not the focus, critrole rsweek, friendships are the main, though canon romances will be mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-22 06:44:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9589319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BondedWings/pseuds/BondedWings
Summary: Love takes many forms and the relationships we forge are not always of a romantic kind.To the friends of the world, who've stood by us, in times of good and bad:We remember.We appreciate.We owe you a goddamn drink.





	1. Spring Comes to Those Who Fight

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all~  
> Here are my submissions for the Critical Role Relationship Week. Here there be SPOILERS, so watch out.
> 
> Please be kind and do not set fire to, throw daggers at, or explode my work into smithereens... unless it's for a school project or a triple-dog dare, and in that case, HAVE AT IT! Perfectly justifiable.
> 
> First up is our darling, badass and bumbling Keyleth & the way-too immaculate and cool as a cucumber even-though-she-DESERVES-to-let-her-hair-down Allura.

Whitestone was awash with flickering lights and colors, despite the lateness of the hour. Even from afar, it was impossible not to hear the lively music swelling amidst the odd cheers and shouts. The Cinder King had fallen, Emon had been reclaimed, the last of the Chroma Conclave was now rotting away in a necromancer’s far off lair, and, for now at least, all of Tal’Dorei was safe.

No one seemed to notice that Her saviors, the heroes of the hour, were nowhere to be found among the celebrations. Too tired from their trials, too emotionally drained from the stress of a highly-staked resurrection ritual, the majority of Vox Machina and friends had elected to rest after first making sure their gnomish bard was sleeping soundly and comfortably, chest once again rising and falling, and their half-elven ranger had been sent a heart-settling message.

Far past midnight, the celebrations continued, but in the castle, most of their merry band of misfits had finally allowed themselves some sleep in one place or another.

Only Keyleth could not seem to allow her eyes to close. Visions and memories clouded her mind, haunting and whispering:

One stupid, fucking ledge and then searing, burning, melting pain. Skeletal hands reaching for her friends, as their hovered just out of reach. A sickening and satisfied smile made of green scales and sharp teeth. A speck on the horizon that could possibly, must be, may be two beloved friends gasping for air.

A dirty song cut short thanks to treacherous intellect.

The gears of an inventor’s mind grinding to a halt because of blind instinct.

…

No. No, sleep would not come easy for the druid this night.

Opening her eyes, Keyleth glanced over to her right to see that Vax’s side of the bed still lay cold and undisturbed. Letting out a soft sigh for terrible green dragons, lava haircuts, quarters of civilization, stupid necromancers, heart-attack-causing bards, and Raven Queen champion boyfriends, she rose from the mattress and slipped on her boots.

_Never forget your fucking boots._

They weren’t exactly the Boots of Haste, but she still got the feeling Vax would be proud of her all the same.

Maybe he could help her get her newer, better boots back from Kima. The twins were always better with that sort of thing than she was.

Keyleth left her chambers and made her way through the long corridors, the magically summoned fire in her grasp crackling cheerfully as it lit the way. Finally she came to a set of long staircases and after a few minutes of ascending, Keyleth found herself overlooking the city from the roof of the castle – the celebratory lights so bright that her flaming hand was almost unnecessary. Extinguishing it, she simply stood there in silent observation and tried really hard to let her mind go blank for once. To let feelings of pride and relief from the fact it was _over_ , it was _done_ , Raishan was _dead_ , and they were _alive_ , just… wash over her.

So desperately was she trying that she didn’t hear the door to the stairway open and close behind her, nor the gentle brush of trailing robes along the stone. It wasn’t until there was the quiet clearing of a throat that the druid turned and saw Allura standing behind her.

“Pardon me, I hope I didn’t disturb you, Keyleth,” the blond wizard apologized with a gentle bow of her head.

“Oh! Allura, hi. What? No, no, not at all, um…” Caught unawares, Keyleth looked around desperately, as though a proper, elegant greeting would swoop down from the sky and land in her hands. “It’s… a nice night.”

Pitiful. She could practically feel Vex face palming from Kymal.

However, Allura simply smiled and stepped up to stand alongside her. “Yes, it truly is.”

“Can’t sleep, huh?”

Allura shook her head. “My mind will not quiet, so I thought a short walk might be in order. This height reminds me a great deal of my tower, it seemed appropriate. You as well?”

“Yeah,” Keyleth nodded. “Well, the ‘not-quieting mind’ parts, not the part about your tower, I mean.”

“Well, if anyone deserves some peace of mind, it’s you all. Though I don’t suppose it’s something so easily attained for everyone.”

Keyleth laughed and wrung her hands, “You know me too well, Allura.”

The two women stood quietly for a while, side by side, looking out over Whitestone. It was so late, even the crickets had ceased to chirp. Perhaps they sensed that their regular songs paled in comparison to tonight’s revelry of mankind. Allura appeared fairly content, but Keyleth found herself trying desperately to fill the _not-awkward, not at all_ silence with _something, anything!_

“Percy says that it’ll be spring here soon.” _Good, good…_ “In Whitestone, that is.” _Obviously!_ “Not that it won’t be spring over places too, like Vasselheim and Ank’Harel and Emon…” _She knows that, you idiot!_ “Oh! But I guess it doesn't feel like spring in Emon, because of the uh, um… fires and uh…” _STOP TALKING! ABORT ABORT!_ “But here! Yeah, here, it-it’s going be spring and feel like spring. Soon.” _WHY?_

Keyleth felt her face burning hot and almost felt that another fall into the lava may be less painful. Then, she remembered her shortened hair that didn’t quite show off her antlers as well as it did when it was long and the burn marks that hadn’t completely healed from her skin, and thought: fuck that.

Then Allura began to shake beside her, quiet sobs taking her, and that’s when Keyleth _really_ started to panic. She started to reach out for the human woman, half-afraid to touch her, half-afraid not to, until Allura made up her mind for her and leaned into the awkward embrace. Keyleth held her for a few moments, rubbing small circles into Allura’s back as Kerrek had done for her earlier that day. She wished Kima were here. If it was Allura, Kima would always know what to do.

Finally, she heard her friend mutter something and strained her ears to hear what amounted to a few syllables amidst soft gurgles and hiccups.

“Allura? I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I-I didn’t, I didn’t hear you. What did you say?”

Allura raised her head and it was then that Keyleth saw that smile on the wizard’s face, despite the tears dripping from her eyes. She took a few long, deep breaths.

“Spring…” she said. “It’s almost spring…” before wrapping her arms around Keyleth once more, her tears now spent, but now holding on with what limited strength she had.

Keyleth blinked. Then blinked twice more before she returned the embrace and stared, not out at the city where the celebrations were finally starting to wind down, but up into the night sky where the constellations were gradually shifting as their time above came to a close. She stared in the direction of the blowing winds, which were turning from an icy sting to a much more refreshing chill. She stared towards the Sun Tree, her cool _cool_ friend, who was finally, _finally_ starting to blossom after not merely a few months of hibernation, but _years_ of restless undeath. She stared down at the golden head of this powerful, benevolent, brilliant human woman with a mind full of knowledge, secrets, and ghosts, and shoulders as narrow as her own, if not more so, carrying the weight of thousands as one single heavy chain broke off and faded away.

Keyleth stared into the face of the changing seasons – something that so many thought that they wouldn’t live to see.

Not the frozen extending of life, ready to shatter at the slightest mishap.

Rebirth.

“It’s almost spring,” the druid murmured.

And for the first time since Raishan had first barred her smiling fangs from across a meeting room table…

Keyleth breathed.


	2. Members Only Club

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 2!!!
> 
> Next up is the sensational, scandalous, and seriously-needing-a-hug Scanlan & Percival Frederickstein Von Mussel Klossowski 'oh-my-god-get-this-boy-some-tea-and-a-library' de Rolo III

Scanlan still wasn’t sure how he’d gotten stuck with Percy-fetching duty – in his _own_ mansion. You’d think having been slain by a motherfucking _dragon_ , going through a crazy _resurrection_ ritual, pissing himself _twice_ , and waking up in a messy, degrading, acrobatic manner someone of his worldly experience could only call a Thursday would get him of the more menial chores for a while, but nooo~

It seemed special attention for dealing with the Raven Queen was reserved for the more broody members of the group. Not that he was complaining… much.

It had been at least a week since Vox Machina had first returned to Whitestone, Vax cradling his lifeless body like a child. One week since his friends and daughter had gathered around him and offered up their best for his swift return. Now he was back for the second time and while there still were some serious physical, mental, and emotional wounds left for everyone to treat, in Scanlan’s mind it was still a lot better than being dead.

From what he could tell in his very brief time on the other side, there had not been a whorehouse, a hookah, or a tavern in sight.

Death was _really_ boring.

So off he went, at the behest of his dearest darling Pikey-pants no less, which made the task a bit better, in search of their resident tinkerer/gunslinger/noble pomp. He winced a bit while descending the stairs, but he shook out the pain and added a little spring in his step for good measure.

Eventually he found Percy seated at his desk, twisting a screw into something mechanical and every so often scribbling something down in his notebook. No doubt working on something silly like an automated messenger system for the castle or more exploding arrows for his lady love (emphasis on ‘Lady’). Now, a giant punching-cannon for Grog or ways to make his songs reach from Whitestone to Emon – _those_ were projects Scanlan could get behind.

“Oi, you,” Scanlan called, wandering in without bothering to knock. It was his place after all, even if the rec room had been permanently converted into the human’s workshop. “Oi! Percival de Fredrick-Von Klosso-stein Musel-owski Rolo III!”

Without turning around, Percy punched one fist into the air. “Huzzah.”

Scanlan laughed, strolled over, and hopped up on the desk. His legs kicked out to swing back and forth to the dedicated ignoring of his friend. “Pike sent me to look for you. She said it’s time for all good little tinkerers to come upstairs and have some dinner.”

Percy’s glasses perched precariously on the bridge of his nose, bouncing in time with the screwdriver's twists. The bard had to fight every desire to snatch them off his face and run like hell. “And what fiendish chicken-concoction have you ordered your servants to make for us tonight? Chicken pudding? Chicken soaked in vinegar and rye? Port-bellied chicken?”

“Nah, thought I’d go old school. Dug up an old recipe for something called, “Kentucky Fried Chicken.”

“I have no idea what that is, but it sounds ghastly.”

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll all have salmonella in the morning.”

“Excellent. Tell Pike I’ll be up shortly then.”

Which of course was ‘Percy-speak’ for “sometime way past midnight”. Well, as the eldest member of Vox Machina, it wouldn't do for him to let their youngest member waste away in the basement. Plus, he wasn't keen on facing a grumpy Vex in the morning whose boyfriend never came to bed. So Scanlan simply shifted his weight so he'd have a better look at whatever Percy was making.

“Whatcha working on? Something cool?”

Finally Percy, probably realizing that the gnome wasn't leaving any time soon, looked over at him and lifted his arm to reveal Diplomacy in pieces. "I figured it was time for an upgrade. Try to make the shock a little more... consistent. I doubt it would've really slowed down a dragon, but..."

"Oh. I dunno," Scanlan hummed. "A little vibration therapy goes a long way." At Percy's flat look, he raised his hands up in front of him. "What? I'm telling you, if you'd used that on Raishan, I bet she'd have been a lot less cranky and a lot less ready to kill us." 

Percy had covered his face by now, but Scanlan swore he could see a smile hidden beneath the human's hands. Score one for the gnome! His work at least halfway done, he hopped down off of the desk and spun on his heels, looking as innocent as a child.

"Anyway, I was thinking."

"What were you thinking?"

“We should start a club, you and I. A ‘spit-back-twice’ club.”

“I’m pretty sure Grog is already a longstanding member," Percy replied. "Vex as well,”

“We should all have jackets then,” Scanlan said without missing a beat. “Dragon hide leather, silver trim, cut right above the navel…” He indicated the appropriate length on his own body, which to be fair would be closer to Percy's knee height.

Percy let out low hum and for a few moments stared off into nothing, torchlight shimmering off his spectacles. Scanlan could practically hear the gears whirring in the tinkerer’s mind, surprisingly giving the matter some school of serious thought before setting the screwdriver down and picking up the quill to start to sketch something out.

“Perhaps,” he said finally, turning back to face the shorter man. “Though I doubt we’d wear them as well as you do. Perhaps pendants instead."

Scanlan decided he liked second post-death Percy better than the first one. This one didn't call him out as much on his bullshit. Then again, first post-death Percy had been the one to finally get off his ass about hearts and intentions and beautiful, but miserly rangers with bears too big to be helpful.

But then again, pre-death Percy hadn't had as many lines on his face. Hell, pre-death Scanlan hadn't had  _any_ lines on his face, thank you very much. Then there had been a daughter and dragons and too many close calls that were just too _real_  and then coping with a light head awash with lights and colors and pretty music and...

No.

It was a tradeoff, but Scanlan was pretty sure _(he thought, he must be)_ that he and Percy had gotten the better ends of the deal in the end.

With that, he reached into his pocket and felt around until he touched metal, warm from where it had stayed hidden for over a week now. Percy was still watching him as he pulled it out for the gunslinger to see.

The small pistol he'd swiped after the fight with Ripley now lay in his hands, still covered in blood, now offered up. For the taking, for judgement, for... whatever.

Percy looked at it a moment and then reached out to take it in his grasp. He turned it over once, twice, three times... and then proceeded to unload it and then methodically take it apart. Scanlan watched as Percy took each piece and cleaned it, polishing the tarnished metal until it shined. He adjusted, rubbed, pulled, twisted, and squeezed. Scanlan just watched and eventually started to sing - 

_"It's been a long day_

_Without you my friend,_

_And we'll tell you all about it_

_When we see you again._

_We've come along way_

_From where we began,_

_Oh, we'll tell you all about it_

_When we see you again."_

Eventually, Percy leaned back and picked up the completed pistol. He looked at Scanlan and then loaded the barrels with ammunition before, very clearly and within view, turning the safety _on_ and handing it back to Scanlan.

"I suppose I'll have to teach you how to use it on weekends."


	3. Size Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nuuuuumber 3, everyone!
> 
> Our sweet angel of Sarenrae and living, breathing MONSTAH Pike & the one, the only, chicken-eating, giant-swinging, lil' Kim Kima!

It wasn’t easy, always being the one left behind. Pike knew that better than most. Even if it was necessary, even if one’s duties sometimes (often, far too often) called you away when all you really wanted was to be at your friends’ side – protecting them, healing them, being there for them when they needed a listening ear or a kind word or a punch to a wall.

So, Pike knew – there was nothing quite so frustrating, so aggravating, so _lonely_ as being left behind.

That’s why, when she spotted Lady Kima in the center of the training grounds – messy hair falling loose, armor haphazardly thrown on, toe tapping, fingers twitching, biting her lip so hard it might break the skin, and beating the stuffing out of a poor training dummy with each swing of her maul – Pike promptly made a beeline for the halfling paladin.

While her friends were off seeking allies and powerful cloaks in Marquet, she would continue her work here in Whitestone and that meant she could spare a few minutes for a friend who looked ready to rage war against the very sky itself.

Pike didn’t say anything for a minute or two, choosing just to observe, though she did her best to make sure that Kima was at least aware enough of her presence so that the cleric wouldn’t suddenly have a Holy Thunder Maul aimed at her head.

Not that it was very hard.

Every time she heard herself clanking around like a tin can was another day she cursed herself for never picking up that special armor she ordered from Gilmore. What a waste…

She watched as Kima laid into the wooden dummy in rapid succession, _whack whack whack_ , before the paladin pivoted on her heel, swinging her maul up and bringing it down with a crushing _crack_ , turning the poor thing’s head into a spray of splinters and wispy straw.

“Amazing,” Pike said aloud, sounding as every bit awed as she felt.

Kima glanced over at her and blew at a tuff of hair that had fallen into her face with no real effect. She hefted her hammer up and over to lie across her shoulders, a steady scowl still on her lips.

“Someone should tell Percival that his training yard needs better equipment. These things fall apart the second you start getting serious!”

Based on the four similarly destroyed dummies off to the side, Pike had a sneaking suspicion that Kima had been “getting serious” for quite some time now.

“Blowing off some steam?” she asked.

Though it seemed impossible, Kima’s frown dipped even lower as she turned her attention from Pike to up towards the castle. “It’s not like I can be of any use in this Bahamut-seeking place.” The halfling paladin looked half-ready to lay siege to the walls. “The rest of your group’s out fighting the good fight, and Allie and Drake are always either out looking for more allies or working on whatever genius-magic-y shit’s gonna end this once and for all.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I can’t do much right now and I’m bored out of my mind, so I thought I’d just get ready for when I _can_.”

“Well, maybe I can help.”

Pike could tell she’d caught Kima off-guard, but she stood her ground, dressed in only her training armor today instead of her regular plate with her holy symbol ever-dangling from around her neck. She still had her necessities in case of an emergency, but she surely looked a sight compared to the fully armored halfling. Already, she was turning over past battles with Kima in her head, laying out her strengths and weakpoints.

_Watch her feet because within striking range, you’ll be in trouble if you’re too slow._

After a few seconds, Kima’s look of surprise had worn off and switched to poorly concealed eagerness. “Are you sure about this? Aren’t you supposed to be helping the priests down at the temple today?”

_Size presents a challenge, neither of you fight too many people your own height._

“They can do without me for a little while,” Pike stretched out her glutes and cracked out her arms above her head. A healer’s job was important, but it didn’t always allow much in the way exercise. “It looks like you could use a challenge and besides,” she looked straight into Kima’s eyes and let a fiery grin spark across her face. “I can’t afford to fall behind either.”

_Block from above and don’t get boxed in or she won’t offer any chance for recovery._

The small halfling gave her a long look before nodding her head. “Right. Fair warning, though: I don’t like to hold back,” she cautioned, swinging her maul down from her shoulders. Her stance shifted into that of a fighting position. The weapon crackled with electricity.

_Aim for her left and remember where she leaves herself open after she swings._

“That’s ok,” the tiny gnome chirped, pounding her Gauntlets of Ogre Strength together like she’d seen Grog do so many times with his Titanstone Knuckles. Physically, she didn’t grow any larger, but she knew that in the battles to come, she’d have to be ready to topple mountains.

“Neither do I.”


	4. The Color of...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Number 4, let me hear you roar!
> 
> The great goliath, more aware than he looks, but oh-so-simple Grog & poor Stockholm syndrome baby girl, someone-give-this-girl-a-hug-an-ale-and-a vacation Cassandra de Rolo.

Grog didn’t get why people got so worked up about family. Most of the time, they were assholes. _His_ family were assholes and he knew he was better off without them.

Pike and Wilhand, Vex and Vax, and Keyleth and her dad seemed to be the exceptions, but to Grog, it just seemed like a lot of wasted energy on something that you could build yourself instead of sticking with what you’d been born into – especially when they were assholes.

He didn’t get why Tiberius had to leave them just because his family wasn’t impressed – if he’d stayed, there’s no way they couldn’t be.

He didn’t know why meeting Kaylee made Scanlan suddenly “need to be a better person” – Scanlan was already the best person.

He didn’t understand why one word from the twins’ dad made Vax freeze solid and Vex curl in on herself – the older elf didn’t seem that strong.

So Grog didn’t get why Cassandra de Rolo was still alive. She’s tried to kill them, she’d tried to kill him and _his_ family and they’d let her live just because she and Percy happened to come out of the same hole.

They’d let her live and now Grog watched her because Vox Machina _never_ let them live. Not anymore. As he watched, he thought of all the ways he could fix it if she tried again.

He could easily cut her in half, like chopping down a tree. He could drop her from up high, like he first planned to and she would hit the ground before she even had time to scream. He could snap her neck and make it fast, make it clean, so she won’t have to suffer. Percy would probably appreciate that.

But Percy also thought related-family was important and would probably get mad and use more of that burning water on him if the goliath did anything, so he didn’t do anything. He just watched and was ready.

Cassandra knew it too. He caught her staring at him every once in a while, and not in the way that the ladies usually stared at Grog – swooning or scared shitless.

She didn’t trust herself. Her brother and everyone else gave her the nicey-nices, but it wasn’t doing much for her. Maybe she just needed someone else who didn’t trust her. Someone with an awesome beard and a big blade standing by just in case she lost it and tried to stab the last brother she had with one of those daggers she still carried under her frills. Her hands were too clean; they would shake if she ever tried to end it herself. Grog could help.

So Grog watched. He watched for trouble and waited for funny business and trained to be ready and fought to protect everyone and raged because he could and traveled to weird-ass places and ate what he found on the ground and saved the world and when they got back home, he watched some more.

He stopped watching the day they took down Thordak and all came back alive.

Weird.

They came back to Whitestone, fucking exhausted and covered in dragon bits and the first thing Percy did was hug Cassandra.

It was weird.

She made a noise like a wet cat, pushed him away in seconds and looked really grossed out. Grog couldn’t help laughing.

It was fucking weird.

He’d always believed that it was blood that marked you. Not the stuff swimming around in your veins, but what was spilled in a well-fought battle, a well-earned kill. Blood meant that you were alive.

Charging into the fray with people you like and trust, coming out smelling like sweat and viscera, and covered in red. When you see that your buddy is just as much a mess as you are, that’s when you knew…

Well… you knew what you knew.

Red was the color of warriors – of survivors.

Percy’s sister is this little slip of a thing, used to nice dresses and all them fancy-to-do’s. She hadn’t had much chance to use the daggers she keeps hidden in her skits, except for that one time she fought against them, but Grog knows she can use them. Built like stone to take the hits, but with lots of cracks. She wanted one hand to catch her and the other ready to strike. Always too clean.

But she still hadn’t tried to wipe off the mess that Percy’s hug had left on her.

Grog lagged behind the others, waiting until everyone else left to bathe. As Cassandra made to leave, he called out to her.

“Hey.”

Cassandra turned, this small, young human woman with her pretty clothes now streaked with soot and blood, her hair a mess, and with a light in her eyes that reminds him a lot of how his friends look after a _really_ tough fight – that _‘thank fuck we’re alive, now let’s go get fucking wasted’_ look. She turned to face him full on, confused, but head held high with a little bit of healthy suspicion in her eyes that reminded him of her brother.

“Yes?” she asked. “Was there something else?”

“You look good in red,” Grog told her and was surprised to realize he meant it.

Cassandra’s nose wrinkled and her brow furrowed. “I’m not sure I wear it as well as the rest of you,” she remarked, tone dripping in light sarcasm.

Grog didn’t get family. Family was shit. Some people needed to be watched. Red was the color of warriors.

He was quiet for a moment, then grinned and shook his head.

“Nah, it’ll grow on you.”

Grog got family. Family was what you chose. Some people wanted to be watched. Red was the color of survivors.


	5. Hate Me or Love Me, It's All the Same

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Five, oh my!
> 
> Our stealthy, stealthy, seriously-how-are-you-so-stealthy Vax'ildan & drunk-and-still-better-than-you, the one and only Kaylie!

"Whoo! That there's some choice liquor that is!" crowed the female gnome, wiping her mouth on her sleeve before throwing back another pint. "Oi, barkeep! Bring us another round over here!"

The middle-aged woman at the counter glanced towards the gnome's compatriot for confirmation, a brooding looking half-elf in armor adorned with black feathers, and at his nod and waved hand, set to fixing the pair two more mugs of ale. She brought them over and while the smaller of the two immediately swiped one out of her hand, the man nodded at her and pressed a few coins into her palm as he took his drink from her, "Thanks Liece. Might as well just send the bottle over when you get the chance." She left them to their devices as the man turned his attention back to his drinking partner.

"You're not exactly a lightweight are you?"

Kaylie Shorthalt, for that was her name, let out a loud 'ha!' that echoed throughout the small Whitestone tavern that they had found themselves in.

"I could say the same for you. Vax or something wasn't it? You handle yourself pretty well for such a scrawny-looking fella."

"Vax'ildan, yes. I've found the nickname's easier for the drunkards to curse without biting their tongues."

Kaylie let out another bout of laughter coupled with a few snorts. Her cheeks were flush with drink, her body loose, yet her eyes remained largely in focus. Drunk enough to enjoy herself and certainly to elicit some sort of hangover in the morning, but nothing that had dulled her mind just yet. The pair sat in silence for a while longer, passing the bottle back and forth when it arrived, until Kaylie pushed her tankard out of reach and leaned back in her chair with an impressive amount of dexterity.

"So? Out with it." At Vax's continued silence, she scoffed, "You waltz in here, interrupting my 'me' time and start buying me drinks all of a sudden. Any other man, I'd think I was being picked up, but I get the feeling that's not your game." She watched him with a trained eye, gained from years of watching folk just as sure as his had been. "Out with it. What'cha wanna talk about?"

Vax looked at the woman sitting across from him. Only those that were paying enough attention would be able to see the telltale dark circles under her eyes or notice that her clothes, while mostly clean, were wrinkled as though they'd recently been slept in. Only a handful knew that up until a few days ago, this woman had been performing for a dead man and then staying close, not sleeping, until his eyes had opened once more.

The rogue sat forward in his chair, hands folded together on the wooden surface. "I know you're probably sick of hearing it, but I wanted to thank you. Again." All the while, he always looked her straight in the eye. "I know it's complicated between you and your father, believe me I know the feeling, but... without you, I don't think it would've worked. We would've lost him for good. So, thank you."

Kaylie stared at him, then reached out to bring her tankard to her lips again, draining it of the last drops of whatever was left inside. When it was empty, she pushed it off to the side again and studied Vax with an unreadable expression.

"You know, your sister said something similar-like when she came to get me. I mean, I'm assuming she was your sister... Creepy otherwise."

Vax chuckled, "Yes, she's my sister."

"Right. Well, she said that she knew what what it was like... having a weird relationship with a father. That true for you too?"

"Yes."

She smirked, a hard line bending just a bit at the tip. "You gonna tell me to forgive him too? That being angry and being hurt ain't worth it? That'd I'll be 'happier' if I just let it all go."

Vax stared at the gnomish woman - a messy pixie cut, enormous brown eyes, that stubborn set to her jaw that, when she wasn't piss drunk and emotionally drained, looked to be made for smiles and songs.

A longsword in an imperfect scabbard hung at her side and a sapphire ring sat perched on her finger.

"No," he said. "I'm not. That's your call."

One Kaylie's eyebrow's raised.

"My sister and I are very similar, but we don't always get bogged down by the same shit. She's found what works for her and she's happier for it, and I couldn't be more glad about that. Me?" Vax shrugged his shoulders, "I stopped caring what others thought a long time ago."

Reaching out, he drained his own drink while Kaylie watched. "I meant what I said... it's no small thing to have a father who loves you, but I also get not knowing what to _do_ with any of that. Maybe soon you'll stop hurting, maybe you never will. Until you figure it out, take as much time as you need - be angry if it helps, throw things, stay far _far_  away or stick close by. Whatever works for you will work for him because if it doesn't, then you already know he isn't worth your time."

Dropping some extra gold on the table, he gestured over the barkeep. "Forgive him or don't. Stay or don't. Make peace or toss the whole thing in the shitter." He stood up, pushing back his chair with a scraping sound. "You don't have to do anything, Kaylie. You don't have to say anything or be anything - you already know it won't stop him from caring about you."

Vax grabbed his cloak from the back on his seat and threw it around his shoulders, "Drinks are on me. We should be sticking around for a few days, but we'll let you know if things change." Kaylie nodded, not making eye-contact with him. Vax shrugged and made towards the door.

He barely made it five paces before he heard an, "Oi!" and turned around. Kaylie was starring into her now empty tankard, still not looking at him. "Are those my only two options? Do or don't?"

"Well, I don't know. I'm no expert, but isn't making it up as you go a Shorthalt specialty?"

Kaylie blinked and finally met his eyes again... and then proceeded to flip him the bird with a gritty grin stretched across her face. Vax saluted and exited the tavern before disappearing into the night.


	6. A Sweet Torture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Six into the mix!
> 
> Say hello to the grumpy, the grounding, the not-so-lone-wanderer Kashaw & glorious Glorious GLORIOUS Shaun Gilmore!
> 
> (also, as an added note, I know a lot of these shots are considered AU now in light of last night's episode *sob* Just, for my sanity please pretend will you *sob**sob* Thank you!)

Kashaw moved his chin from resting in his left palm to his right, fighting back a yawn as the time difference between Whitestone and Vasselheim continued to fuck with him.

Vox Machina could kiss his ass, the ungrateful shits.

Life was weird sometimes. Instead of walking the path of the solitary man, he now sat at a long table beneath a castle with a fucking floating orb of death less than a hundred feet away, amongst reigning Ladies, Arcanists, Wizards, and Sorcerers, members of the Council of Emon, Paladins of Bahamut, and Spy Masters. He sat there, Zahra to his right, and tried not to look like he'd rather be anywhere else, as everyone planned for whatever shit show lay ahead. If the smirks the purple-garbed sorcerer with the impressive goatee was giving him were anything to go by, he wasn't doing a very good job.

After another hour or so, Cassandra finally dismissed them. Kashaw winced as he stood, his body still sore from the trip, but when Zahra reached out a hand to steady him, he waved her off.

"I'm alright, Z, don't worry," he promised.

"I always worry, darling. You won't get me to stop as easily as that," the red tiefling teased, tapping his nose with one clawed finger. "How about we get some dinner?"

Kashaw shook his head and, at her side, began the trek out of the Ziggurat. "As tempting as that sounds, I have a feeling I'm more likely to fall in my food than eat it. Think I'll just head back to the barracks and get some sleep."

"Want me to go with you?" she offered as they began ascending the stairs back up to the castle's main floor. "It's getting dark out. We wouldn't want you getting lost now."

The human cleric rolled his eyes, "I think I can manage it."

Zahra smiled, "I have the utmost faith in you," she said and after giving him a quick peck on the cheek, sauntered off.

Kashaw watched her go and then glanced around. Most of the others that had been at the meeting had already separated to go about their own business - only Allura, Drake, Kima, and the old, crusty wizard had stayed back below when the rest had scattered. Kashaw looked about the fancy main hall with its towering ceiling, climbing pillars, and tapestries hanging off the wall adorned with a sun-and-keep design. The room broke out into at least six different directions on this floor and had at least two main winding staircases leading up into what he was sure would be a dozen more doors and corridors. Bypassing them all, he headed to the main entrance and looked down over Whitestone where the city was already alight with the evening lamps.

"Right," he muttered to himself. "So was it three lefts and a right, or one left and three rights?" and he headed down the stone steps into the city.

An hour later, the cleric was ready to take a page out of the big man's book and start smashing. There were too many damn buildings filling up space, too many damn streets that led to other streets, and he was taking too many damn turns at that damn giant tree in the center of the damn town. It was really starting to get dark now and Kashaw had a sinking suspicion he wasn't anywhere closer to the barracks than he'd been when he'd started. There wasn't much choice - he was going to have to ask for directions.

Swallowing his pride, he picked one of the modest, yet well-put-together homes at random, walked up and knocked on the door. After a few moments, the door opened and there standing in the light extending from the interior stood a familiar-looking man with dark sun-kissed skin, long dark hair and a braided goatee, dressed in purple evening robes and holding a steaming cup of what appeared to be tea in one hand.

"Well well, Kashaw Vesh gracing my doorstep. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

Shaun Gilmore stood before him, looking rather bemused, but also adapting to the situation with his regular grandeur. Kashaw hadn't many, if any, real one-on-one interactions with the sorcerer beyond general introductions upon his arrival and the odd meeting between Vox Machina's Whitestone allies, but even someone who'd had only the briefest of meetings with the man would find Gilmore very hard to forget.

"I was really just picking doors at random, didn't mean to disturb you."

Gilmore's smile, beyond comprehension, actually grew wider. "Well then, this night is certainly a fortuitous one if it has gifted me with a rare sighting of the mysterious and ever-brooding Kashaw the recluse."

Kashaw just stared at him. "Yeah, lucky you."

He knew he was being rude, but it wasn't intentional, not really. Zahra had told him once that he was something of an "acquired taste," and that if he smiled a bit more others might "enjoy the flavor". However changing an entire demeanor, one that he'd built up ever since the day he'd discovered that the deity his mother told him he was destined to marry was actually a life-sucking enigma of darkness and pain, was not exactly as easy as changing what he wanted for breakfast.

To Gilmore's credit though, he didn't seem offended. More like amused as if he had just stumbled upon an interesting sideshow performance or an unconventional use for health potions. Whatever his thoughts, he turned around and reentered his lodgings, motioning behind him for Kashaw to follow. After a moment of lingering oddly in the doorway, he followed the other man inside and shut the door behind him.

Without a word, the sorcerer led to the kitchen-slash-dining room and motioned for him to take a seat at the table before moving to the counter where a kettle sat, steam rising from the tip. He refilled his cup.

Kashaw stood awkwardly in the center of the room before addressing the man that had his back to him. "Really, I was just looking to get some directions to the barracks. I don't need any tea."

Gilmore snapped his fingers and a teacup, saucer, and spoon magically floated off the shelf and into the cleric's hands.

"Nonsense," he replied, turning around and taking a seat himself as the kettle floated after him. "It's been too long since I had a guest for more than a minute or two and I intend to take advantage of it. Also, and pardon the intrusiveness my friend, you look like you could use a cup of tea more than most dragons could use a good slaying." He waved his hand again and the chair opposite him pulled out from the table. "Come! Sit for a spell and then I'll be sure to send you on your way."

Reluctantly, Kashaw took a seat and held out the cup for the enchanted kettle to fill. Taking a sip, he held back a slight grin as the refreshing flavor spilled over his tongue.

“So, how was your visit with the iron-asses and zealot-types?” Gilmore asked after a few minutes, throwing a wrench into the surprisingly comfortable silence.

Kashaw felt a vein in his head begin to pulse. “Oh, great. Y’know,” he bit out, words like acid on his tongue. “Only took me a goddamn week to pretty much sell myself to the Huntmaster for two insanely expensive contracts, and then come back through the frozen wasteland to find out, ‘oh hey, yeah so we don’t actually need those anymore, thanks anyway!’ Yeah, it was fucking fantastic.”

“I heard,” Gilmore smiled sympathetically. “Our intrepid adventurers aren’t exactly known for their patience. Or planning.” He took another sip before continuing. “Still, I’m sure they do appreciate your efforts.”

“What, like they do yours?” Kashaw spit out and proceeded to seethe, while the other man just looked at him awhile.

He felt bad for saying it. He did. It wasn’t kind and it wasn’t necessary, especially for someone like Gilmore, who had been busting his ass alongside Allura to keep the city off the map. Compared to them, Kashaw really hadn’t lost a whole lot, even if time was a rare commodity these days, but dammit that could have been a week spent healing in the medical tent, a week training recruits to have at least a fraction of a chance if the inevitable should happen and the dragons shifted their attention north. A week spent with one tiefling over another.

As if reading his mind, and who knows maybe he was, Gilmore put down his tea and leaned on the arm of his chair, “Time is a precious thing, especially when the days are measured by long you go without hearing the beating of leathery wings or seeing dragon fire on the horizon. For those left waiting for the shoe to drop, it’s agonizing, but for those actively racing against the clock… it must be a living hell.”

He smiled then, a bit sad, but still warm. “The latter clings to the things that bring them comfort – love, friendship, or even just reliability. Sometimes all three. Sometimes all three in one person.”

Kashaw huffed a breath, “Not really fair.”

Gilmore chuckled, “No, perhaps not. Tell me though,” and he leaned towards him, “Isn’t it interesting to know that not one, not two, but seven people if not more believe you to be one of the few who _absolutely will_ survive?”

The cleric stared into his tea, the scent filling his nostrils with warm, slightly sweet steam.

In his life, Kashaw had spent a good portion of it intentionally trying not to make friends. Being the only living cleric to a vengeful Goddess of evil and despair didn't usually endear him to very many. Being her husband didn't typically score him very many points either.

So, he felt it was in everybody's best interests to keep himself separate, go where he was needed or where his fancy struck him, and just get by without having to deal with the messy bits that liking people typically came with.

Of course, that was before.

Before he'd been recruited into training hopeless, would-be soldiers in a city he'd only just arrived in. Before he reached out to a force he loathed and a half-elf started breathing again under his hands. Before he met Z and for the first time, actually started to think there was something to this whole "emotional ties" thing. Before dragons came crashing out of Gods-knows-where and began setting the world on fire. Before he met the most crazy-ass, ridiculous family he'd ever seen, helped kill a giant cat demon to clear up a debt, and kissed a very pretty and babbling druid before walking off into the sunset, secretly hoping he'd see them all again.

Before he actually started to give a damn.

Kashaw let out a long sigh, rubbing his hand over his face. “Giving a damn really sucks, doesn’t it?”

Gilmore chuckled and leaned back in his seat, picking up his tea from its saucer. “Oh yes, my friend. It really does.”


	7. Money Can't Buy... Happiness?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last but not least, seven!
> 
> Finally we have the lovely, miserly, friend to all furry creatures and shine coins Vex'ahlia & the dependable, handsome, god-give-this-man-a-raise-and-a-vaction-please Jarett!

Jarett had long since considered himself to be a man of relatively simple tastes. He didn’t need much in the way of extravagancy to be comfortable – simple clothes, weapons in good condition, a steady paycheck, a roof over his head, a belly (or two) full of food, and enough alcohol to always get him to that sweet spot if not push him over the edge.

No, Jarett didn’t have much more than what he needed and he usually preferred it that way. Unfortunately, recent dragon attacks made it difficult to have even that much these days. After relocating to Whitestone, he’d taken it upon himself, with his now-former-but-not-really employers’ permission, to situate himself into the city guard for the time being – both out a desire to do good work, he knew he’d go mad if he didn’t have something to do, and out of necessity.

Like so many others, Jarett had escaped from Emon with just the clothes on his back, his weapons, and what few personal effects that could fit into a small burlap traveling sack. Now he found himself shacked up in the city barracks and while he had enough (bland) food to keep his belly mostly filled and enough work to keep his mind sharp, he’d be lying if he said his only two sets of clothing weren’t becoming a bit tattered.

It was nothing he couldn’t handle.

The Lady Cassandra was doing her best to accommodate not only the refugees, but her own people as well and Jarett was not about to bother her or anyone else for that matter. Resources were low enough as is.

Not only that, but with the constant threat of death from the sky or an army marching on them from the south, extended rest was no longer a luxury he could afford.

The more hours someone like him could put into keeping the castle secure, the recruits trained, and the more basic daily tasks attended to, the less the stronger and smarter of Vox Machina’s arcane allies would have to worry about, and be able to focus on the greater issue of shielding the city and ending the dragon threat once and for all.

Jarett could take care of himself.

Ultimately though, it seemed he could not avert every set of eagle eyes. On one of his breaks from training, during which he was doing his best to keep a newly sewn patch on his shirt from bursting free (he was more skilled with a sword than a needle and thread), he looked up to find Vex standing before him, hip cocked to one side, arms folded, and a very cross look on her lovely face.

“Jarett, dear,” she said in way of a greeting and Jarett suddenly felt very similar to how he had as a small child – his mother standing over him, scolding him for stealing the neighbor’s meat pies.

Doing his best to shake off the brief flashes of nostalgia and fear, he stood to greet his former employer. “Ah, Vex’ahlia. It is good to see you’ve returned. I trust your most recent venture into the unknown bore fruit?” Behind her, Jarett could spot her bear Trinket wandering around the training yard spooking recruits.

“Oh yes, it was lovely – near-death experiences and moments of idiocy for everyone. How are you, darling? You’re looking a little tired,” replied the half-elven ranger, without missing a beat or taking the bait and bringing his attention right back to her instead of on the enormous creature making his soldiers wet themselves.

Standing up straight and slapping on a winning smile of his own, Jarett shook his head. “I am simply doing my part, same as anyone should in times such as these. I may not be as equipped for hunting down weapons of power or constructing a magic barrier to keep us safe, but I do what I can.”

“Oh, no one’s debating that. You've proven yourself _more_ than capable,” Vex said, her voice growing kinder, but still retaining that razor sharpness of cunning. “For example, you are extremely talented at avoiding my questions, so I’ll ask again: how _are_ you, Jarett?”

His smile stayed in place, “I am well enough, truly. Grateful for a roof over my head, two square meals a day, and a place where my skills can be put to good use.”

Vex narrowed her eyes at him, gaze drifting down his person. He suddenly wished more than ever that he hadn’t decided to forgo the upper half of his armor for his break. His gear wasn’t of the highest quality, but he kept it in fairly good condition and more importantly it covered the admittedly tattered clothes that lay beneath. Worse then that, his traitorous stomach chose that exact moment to let out a clearly audible growl. He could practically feel his face flaming as Vex raised her head to look him in the eyes once more.

She seemed to think for a long moment and Jarett stood there, waiting to be lectured or teased or pitied, but instead the woman in front of him merely gave a thoughtful look before she began to speak.

“You know Jarett, the people here are very lucky to have such reliable guardsmen here to protect them. It’s clear their training is paying off. Look,” and she glanced back where three recruits were trying, quite admirably, to gently herd Trinket away from sniffing the other recruits. It wasn’t doing much, but they hadn’t been eaten yet, so that was something.

“I don’t know many who are brave enough to stand up to Trinket, _especially when he hasn’t eaten yet today,_ ” her voice raised on that last part and Trinket let out a short growl that had the soldiers, looking even more nervous then before, beginning to back away from the bear. Jarett, who had seen Trinket furiously attack an invisible assailant in his defense in the past, was unworried and kept his attention on the bear’s mistress.

“Give them a week and they will be ready to face giants,” he bluffed.

“Grog will be pleased. He’s been looking for a new challenge. Dragons are becoming a bit predictable for him.”

“Ah, but I said _giants_ Vex’ahlia, not _half-giants_.”

Vex laughed and Jarett felt pleased and hopeful that perhaps he’d be able to make it out of this with his dignity largely intact. That is, until she began rummaging through her satchel.

“Regardless, it’s always been my belief that outstanding service deserves just rewards,” and she pulled out a small, yet heavy bag from her satchel. Jarett could hear the clink of coin from inside and he stuck out his hand to push it away as she went to hand it to him.

“Thank you, but no. I appreciate your generosity, but there is no need. I am just doing my job.”

Vex raised one eyebrow, “Jobs typically entitle their workers to payment, darling.”

Jarett smirked at her. “That may be, but a “coin purse” of that size and amount would certainly go far above my monthly rate, even with the raises I am owed. Besides,” and he took a step back. “You need that far more than I do with what you are facing.”

Vex was silent a moment, as though giving his reasoning serious thought, and then nodded. “You’re right, Jarett.”

The guardsman felt a rush of relief and a twinge of something else, before there was a sudden rush of movement and he found himself holding the heavy bag of coin in his hand.

“You’re right, Jarett,” Vex said again with a cheeky grin on her face, but her eyes deadly serious. “We do need money for healing potions and resistances and all matter of bribes…” Now Jarett’s eyebrow raised and Vex waved him off. “Don’t ask. Anyway, you’re kind to worry about us, but the tens of thousands of platinum we’ve happened upon in our recent fights _should_ cover things for a while.”

She nodded her head towards the recruits, who Trinket had at last left in peace. “This gold however, is actually meant specifically to pay the soldiers for their service. You know, living and training expenses, equipment, hygiene, decent meals, bar tabs, and the like…” She gave him another look up and down. “New clothes.”

Jarett could feel his jaw hanging open, but couldn’t for the life of him find the strength to close it.

“So really, dear,” Vex continued. “I’m afraid to say this money isn’t just for you… No, no, that would be terribly inappropriate. It’s for you _and_ the dozens of other hardworking individuals who I’m certain could use the odd comforts while they’re stuck here dong the work no one else can.” She looked him straight in the eye. “It would be selfish to deny them that, wouldn’t you agree?”

Finally closing his mouth so not to resemble a fish, Jarett stammered, “I-I suppose that’s true. Right. I will… distribute the funds accordingly and make sure everyone–” he flinched at the ranger’s glare.

“ _Everyone,_ ” he emphasized, “gets their fair share. Thank you.”

An enormous, satisfied smile bloomed on Vex’s face. “I’m pleased to hear it. I'm not often so generous, so such an occasion should be celebrated appropriately. Come along, Trinket!” she called as she turned to start walking away. “Let’s get back to the others!”

Jarett was left behind with a dumbstruck look on his face, holding a bag that must at least weigh… a lot. He watched until his former employer was out of sight, glanced over to the training yard where several soldiers were staring at him, and then weighed the bag carefully in his hand before a bright smile stretched across his own face.

There was a comfortable-looking dark-red jacket in a seamstress’s shop a few blocks from here that he’d been thinking would work very well against the mid-winter chill.


End file.
